‘No such thing,’ said Sussworth and went to the rear of his desk. He reached down a large legal volume and placed it on his chair and sat on it, making himself look five inches taller. After that he took his cap from a hook and settled it squarely on his head, composing his features into something resembling a blank well. ‘I’m ready,’ he called, and into the room was propelled the dishevelled and grimy figure of the Queen Mum, her rags and scraps of polythene barely hanging on to her limbs. Being handcuffed she was unable to keep her balance and she sprawled across the carpet between the door and the desk.
‘Aaaaagh,’ cried Sussworth weakly, surprised out of his superior stance for a second. ‘Pick her up, Hanks, and get an old newspaper for her to stand on.’
The Queen Mum was dragged to her feet and the inspector’s request complied with. The arresting officer entered the caravan and went to stand by the computer, ready to answer questions. The inspector nodded at him. ‘You may begin, PC Blume. Tell me what is known.’
The police constable switched on the computer terminal and pumped up the relevant record. ‘Susan Palmer,’ he read aloud, ‘alias the Queen Mum or Queenie, found today wandering north on the Finchley Road, drunk in charge of a pram. Previous convictions include obscene language, behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace, viz, removing her knickers and waving them under the noses of innocent bystanders—’
‘Is there no shame?’ said Sussworth quietly. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a jar of pot-pourri and removed the lid. ‘She smells like Camembert,’ he added.
Hanks sniffed like a connoisseur. ‘Yes,’ he observed. ‘I bet her armpits are all stuck up with black jam.’
Officer Blume coughed and continued reading. ‘—causing alarm and despondency on the public highway by singing and dancing in Trafalgar Square, grievous bodily harm, damage to police property and zigzagging down the middle of Fleet Street with her pram during the Lord Mayor’s procession, shouting, “I am royalty,” thereby causing a breach of the peace.’
Officer Blume raised a hand to his mouth and coughed again. ‘The prisoner is also known to all London divisions as a vagrant, a troublemaker, mentally unstable, and is often found consorting with meths drinkers in the King’s Cross area, though she has been known to live in the north for long—’
‘Stop,’ said Sussworth suddenly, and he leant forward and placed his elbows on his desk, interlacing his fingers and resting his pointed chin on the bridge he had so formed. He had perceived the tiniest flicker of guilt passing across the Queen Mum’s countenance.
‘King’s Cross,’ said Sussworth. He smiled sweetly, like deadly nightshade masquerading as a bunch of violets. ‘I believe C Division has an unsolved murder at King’s Cross,’ he said. ‘Get it up on the computer, Blume, it might be interesting.’
Blume touched a button on the terminal and the screen glowed with light. His voice sounded out again. ‘Right, sir. Murder … victim a methylated spirits drinker going by the name of Madge. No witnesses, or rather all witnesses intoxicated out of their brains. A certain Hughie MacMungall held on suspicion but later released. Motive thought to be robbery. Several valuable items, probably stolen goods, missing. General call put out for Susan Palmer, alias the Queen Mum, alias Queenie, a material witness, thought to be implicated. In any case she was accused of the crime by MacMungall during his interrogation. And look here, sir … MacMungall also talked about children or Borribles being present on the night of the murder. It looks like they were all in it together!’
Blume finished his reading and a deep and heavy silence settled over the caravan. The Queen Mum began to cry. Sussworth got slowly to his feet and pointed at his prisoner and his finger burnt in the air like an acetylene torch cutting metal.
‘I’ve got you dead to rights, Queenie,’ he said, ‘because you’re going to tell me everything I want to know … And one thing is certain, if you don’t cooperate I’ll see you get weighed off for twice as many years as you’ve got left to live.’
‘I don’t know nuffin’,’ said the old woman. ‘I don’t know nuffin’. That Hughie MacMungall has it in for me, that’s all; he’d say anything to do me down.’
Sussworth crept round his desk and twisted his face sideways. ‘There’s something you ought to know, Queenie,’ he said. ‘I hate Borribles and the only thing I hate worse than Borribles are adults who help Borribles. But, Queenie, anyone who helps me in my unending war against those little enemies of society will find herself basking in the sunlight of my pleasure.’
‘I had nothing to do with it,’ said the Queen Mum. She joined her hands together and dropped to her knees in front of Sussworth and looked up into his face. ‘I did see some kids, yes, but I never knew they were Borribles or anything. And I didn’t stay at Madge’s at all, ’cos her and Hughie were fighting drunk … I left.’
‘You see,’ continued the inspector, ‘I don’t care, Queenie, whether you perpetrated this murder or not. All I want is information about Borribles. I eat, drink and sleep Borribles; I can smell ’em a mile off and I can smell ’em on you. You’ve had them round you, Queenie, today, so don’t bother to deny it.’
The Queen Mum wrung her hands again and whimpered.
Sussworth rocked on his heels. ‘You tell me what you know,’ he said, ‘and you walk out of this caravan a free woman, but if you persist in your evil ways I’ll put you inside, Queenie. You’ll do porridge. I’ll send you to a criminal asylum, Queenie, with a nice rubber room and plenty of medicines and pills shoved down your throat to make sure you turn into a vegetable. You won’t be the Queen Mum any more, the scourge of London, you’ll just be a cabbage.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Hanks. ‘Just a cauliflower.’
‘Definitely,’ said Officer Blume, ‘a cauliflower.’ He sighed. ‘Imagine, if all the world was cauliflowers, what a garden it would be.’
The Queen Mum raised her hands in supplication. Her straggly hair fell about her wrinkled face and her lips of creased gristle writhed over her gums in a terrible anguish.
‘Oh, inspector,’ she wailed, ‘I don’t know nothing about that there murder, I promise you I don’t, on my life. But I know you have the power to do what you say and I would die a living death if you took the streets away from me … I love them, sir, I do, more than life itself.’
Sussworth sneered with pleasure and thrust his hands behind his back where they clasped each other like long-lost friends. He glanced at Hanks in triumph, performed a smart about-turn and then regained his desk so that he might sit in his chair, leaning forward to eye the kneeling prisoner. His moustache twitched in glee. ‘Have you had any truck or converse of any sort or manner with Borribles or any of their allies or accessories? Answer, or it’s prison for ever.’
The Queen Mum rose fearfully to her feet. ‘I am a weak old lady,’ she began, ‘unable to get work at my age and unable to get dole money because I am of no fixed abode. I am easily put upon by people younger and stronger, your honour. I did meet up with them Borribles in King’s Cross, and they bullied me and beat me something cruel, Inspector, nasty little tykes, and they took what money I had too, though they says they never has anything to do with it … but they took mine quick enough, crash, bang and vvallop.’
‘Yes,’ said Sussworth, nodding like a bored child at an oft-repeated tale. ‘Go on.’
‘And that’s why I scarpered out of the arches as soon as I could get away. I took me pram and went, and I never saw ’em again after that, honest. On my life, I didn’t.’
Hanks stepped forward at this and cuffed the Queen Mum round the back of her head with all the weight of his mighty arm and she fell on to her hands and knees. Blood dribbled down her chin.
Sussworth leant back in his chair. ‘It won’t do,’ he said gently. ‘Do you think we policemen are as unintelligent as common rumour would have it? The smell of the Borribles is on you, I say. It’s woven into the rags you are wearing, you guttersnipe. Now listen, you old crone, tell me the truth or it’s non-stop to
the nuthouse for you. A lifetime of carbolic and bleach, a lifetime of no gin and no vino. Speak up, Queenie, or I will incarcerate you quicker than the speed of light.’
‘Yes,’ said Hanks. ‘Fast.’
The Queen Mum stayed on her hands and knees and stared at the carpet; tears poured down her cheeks and mingled with the blood on her chin. ‘Oh help me, someone,’ she moaned. ‘I don’t want this, it ain’t what I want to do. I never told the law anything, ever. Why do I have to do it now?’
Sussworth inspected his nails. ‘Look at it this way,’ he said. ‘They’re only bits of kids, poor little orphans, and we have their best interests at heart. We are the agents of society, as it were; we pass them on to the proper authority, Queenie, just like we might have to pass you on.’
The Queen Mum lifted her stained face and it was completely drained of hope. ‘They’re hiding in the old link tunnel between the LMR and the Bakerloo line at Swiss Cottage,’ she said. ‘Just today, then they’re going to—’
Sussworth screamed with delight and scrambled over his desk. He jumped up and down on the floor, his legs stiff and his fists clenched.
‘This time, this time,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve got them, Hanks. We’ll clip their ears.’
‘This is wonderful news,’ said Officer Blume, and he saluted.
Hanks, by way of celebration, winkled something out of a nostril and held it close to his eye in order to compare it with the hundreds of other soft things he had discovered up his nose in the past. Absentmindedly he wiped it on the rags that covered the Queen Mum’s back. ‘Pretty good one that,’ said the Sergeant. ‘It’s amazing where they all come from.’ Then he grabbed the old tramp by her hair and dragged her upright. ‘What shall I do with the prisoner, sir?’ he asked.
Sussworth stopped clicking his heels on the floor and stared at the Queen Mum for a couple of seconds while he made up his mind. ‘Why,’ he said at length, ‘send her down to C Division, of course; she’s a murder suspect.’
There was a loud cry and the Queen Mum fainted, slipping from Hank’s grasp. She lay on the floor, her old face a solid skull with deep black pits in it.
Officer Blume saluted again. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘C Division? C Division is Birdlime’s division, sir. Well, why should we do him any favours? He’s going to look very good if he solves that King’s Cross murder … whereas if we catch the Borribles we’ll be unbeatable, sir.’ The constable lowered his voice so that the Queen Mum should not hear though she looked as close to unconsciousness as made no difference. ‘We can hold the old bag while we check her story, then, if what she says is true, we can let her go, for a week or two, and then pick her up again. That way we get the Borribles and, after a suitable lapse of time, we’ll solve Birdlime’s murder for him. We’ll be as shiny as a new coin and he’ll look about as useful as a cup of yesterday’s cocoa.’
Sussworth stopped jerking his body up and down and placed his hands on his hips. He advanced slowly towards the constables.
‘Officer,’ he said, his face paralysed with wonder, ‘you are a mindreader, a talented mind-reader. I have to admit that you have made an excellent exposition of what was going through my brain at this particular and actual moment in time. My suggestion was merely a test of your powers of thought, a probing of your loyalty to the SBG esbrie de corpse. Mark my verbals, Blume, when all this is over you’ll be Sergeant Blume. Hanks could do with an assistant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The inspector celebrated this latest achievement with a tango step and then trotted over to his map of London. ‘Listen carefully,’ he said. ‘Here are your orders. I want the stations above and below Swiss Cottage blocked off and the exit and entrance to the LMR tunnel as well. Telephone London Transport and tell them that a gang of villains has gone to earth at Swiss Cottage and until we’ve got them out the power will have to be cut off in that section. Send officers to every station on the Bakerloo and stop commuters using the trains. Telephone the Yard for reinforcements, and, Hanks, round up all the dwarfs you can find at short notice. Get that Nonch fellow here.’
‘The dwarfs, sir?’
‘Yes, Hanks, why should our men take all the risks? I’ll send those dwarfs in as a first wave, that’s what Rommel would have done … Find out where the Borribles are hiding, flush them into the open. By the time our chaps move in the dwarfs will have done half the work. This time I want no mistakes. This is my finest hour.’
‘Of course, sir. Brilliant, sir. Shall I inform the DAC?’
‘No, no, no! Certainly not, Hanks. The DAC doesn’t want to know how it’s done, he just wants to know that it is done. Above all he does not want to know about dwarfs … Make sure the men realize that, whatever happens. All he wants at the end of the day is a fate accomplice, got that? Now, any questions?’
‘Yessir,’ said Hanks. ‘What shall we do with this prisoner?’ He indicated the silent form on the floor.
‘Ha, yes,’ said Sussworth. In his excitement he had completely forgotten about the Queen Mum. ‘Keep her in custody until we know for sure the Borribles are where she said they were, then throw her back on the streets. Right now there is more important work to do.’ The inspector smirked at the photographs of Rommel and Monty. ‘This time we knock ’em for six,’ he said, and quickly pulling on his long overcoat he left the caravan to assemble his men and organize his patrol cars and vans.
The moment the inspector had gone Officer Blume grabbed the Queen Mum by the scruff of the neck, hauled her to her feet and pushed her towards the open door. Sergeant Hanks picked up the telephone and spoke to Scotland Yard, slipping an eager finger into a wide nostril. The Adventurers did not know it but the greatest danger they had ever faced was coming closer and closer.
12
The same darkness as before filled the disused tunnel and the Adventurers were ill at ease in it. Such a darkness was difficult to live with, suffocating and soft, but the fugitives were obliged to make the best of it. They had no option and nowhere else to go. It was daylight now and there would be no hiding place for them or the horse on the streets above. All they could do for the time being was eat what was left of their provisions, drink the tin-tasting water from the old tap, and draw lots to see who should sleep and who should stand guard.
For a long while there was quiet in the lost space behind the old control cabin, a strange prickly quiet, and only the distant thunder of the trains on the Bakerloo line disturbed it, and only occasionally did that same thunder cause a stream of fine dust to pour from the loose bricks of the roof and add itself to the thick carpet of stone dirt already lying deep on the ground.
At last some of the Adventurers went to explore the two deserted trains that stood, rusty, in the sidings. There they soon discovered that the closed doors could be forced open and that in the carriages the long wide seats made comfortable beds, providing them with the best day’s sleep they had enjoyed since leaving Battersea.
Those who remained awake sat at the rough workbenches, resting their heads in their hands, talking in low tones, not shining their torches and not daring to think even that Neasden was only a night’s march away.
Two Borribles were on sentry-go: Napoleon on the far side of the trains, staring round a bend towards the lights of Swiss Cottage station, and Bingo who watched the back road, peering into the blackness of the tunnel which took the LMR line from Marylebone Road right up to West Hampstead. It would not do to be caught napping at this late stage in the game; the Adventurers had only to get through the day and then they would be on the final lap. Unfortunately it was not to be that easy; it was not to be that straightforward.
Sometime during the mid-morning of that day Knocker raised his head; he had heard a Borrible whistle coming from Napoleon’s direction. He heard someone curse in the dark and the Wendle came round the side of the control cabin at speed. Knocker swivelled on his chair as did the others who sat near him: Chalotte, Vulge and Twilight.
Napoleon flicked his torch on and off, j
ust to show his face. It was angry. ‘Have you noticed?’ he asked.
‘Noticed what?’ said Knocker.
‘The trains,’ retorted Napoleon. ‘They’ve stopped; I haven’t heard one for about half an hour.’
‘You’re right,’ said Sydney. She was sitting on the ground by the horse, against the wall.
‘I went right up dose to the station when I realized,’ went on Napoleon, ‘right close … There’s a lot of blokes on the platform, blokes in uniform, Woollies, hundreds of ’em.’
‘We’ve been shopped,’ said Chalotte.
‘Too bloody right,’ agreed Napoleon. ‘Queenie! Who else could it be? I said we should have brought her with us, or slit her throat.’
‘Perhaps we can get out the way we came in,’ said Chalotte, ‘before they close the tunnel that end.’
It was the only chance they had but it was scotched at that very moment by the arrival of Bingo, running as fast as he could, his torch beam cutting across the darkness. He halted by the table, gulping for air. ‘I went up the tunnel,’ he began, ‘to explore … I heard some noises and back where this tunnel joins the Marylebone one there’s lights, a barrier, blokes in uniform. Coppers. What about the other way?’
‘We’re rats in a trap,’ said Napoleon. ‘There’s just this tunnel and we’re in the middle of it and there’s Woollies at each end. It’s the end of the line all right.’
‘Oh no,’ cried Sydney. ‘Not now, not when we’re almost there. They’ll get Sam for sure this time. I don’t care for me but—’
‘I care for me,’ said Napoleon. ‘I care a lot.’
Vulge struck the workbench with his fist. ‘Fancy marching so far and struggling so hard just to end up here … in this filthy hole in the ground, just to die in this shitty pit.’
‘Well,’ said Twilight, ‘at least we got Sam away from Sussworth. He’s had some freedom, even if it was only for a little while.’
Knocker got to his feet and picked up two bandoliers of stones from the table; he slipped them over his shoulder. ‘That’s not enough,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t have to die, we shouldn’t have to lose our ears and Sara shouldn’t have to be turned into catsmeat, not for any reason at all. It ain’t right.’
The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis Page 29